Drumlanrig Castle, Scottish Borders, Saturday, 24 August 1872
The headache, which had announced itself several hours earlier as a dull, insistent throb, was rapidly becoming unbearable, the vise-like band of tension making it difficult to concentrate. He had already been brusque, verging on rude, toward the woman sitting on his right during the fish course, and there were God knows how many more dinner courses to endure. She was a friend of his hostess, the Duchess of Buccleuch. He had feigned interest as she lauded one of the duchess’s many projects. Something to do with her renowned kitchen gardens, wasn’t it? Yes, that was it: the duke and duchess had taken on so many apprentice gardeners that they were having to build new dormitories to house them all.
The effort to distract himself made his brain ache. He could feel the pain building relentlessly inside him, what he knew was referred to behind his back in the officers’ mess as one of his turns, making it sound as if he suffered from dizzy spells instead of a debilitating affliction. His muscles ached from the effort required to stop his limbs from trembling. His vision was becoming blurred. His temper, always an accurate barometer of his condition, rose steadily each time he had to cover his wine-glass to prevent one of the footmen from topping it up. Bitter experience had taught him that alcohol made him much worse.
It must have been the grouse shoot this morning that had triggered it. He couldn’t think what else it might have been. The crack of the shotguns, the smell of gunpowder were bound to evoke vivid echoes of the past. So it could only have been that, since he’d felt perfectly well otherwise. He should have made his excuses, but then he’d have drawn attention to himself by disrupting the duke’s carefully planned assignment of the privileged spots at the shooting positions on his grouse-moor. There would be at least another two shoots later this week; but while the rest of the guests were looking forward to the sport, for him it was simply an endurance test, the means to an end. If he made a favourable impression, it would go a long way towards
ensuring a sympathetic audience with the duke; and the duke was in a prime position to influence the one person in the kingdom who could put the necessary wheels in motion. The War Office needed this new department. He desperately wanted this new role. There was even the possibility that another of the duke’s guests, expected tomorrow or the next day, might prove to be his first recruit. If things worked out. If!
He would do his best to make sure they did. This was his chance to prove himself and do something worthwhile. If he failed—no, it didn’t bear thinking of. Another year of festering away at that desk in Whitehall would see his brain turn to something akin to the porridge they served here for breakfast, or permanently enveloped in the fog that was closing in on him now. This could well be his best and only opportunity to make something of himself and of the department. They were relying on him to make his case. He could do it. He would do it. He’d find a way to achieve what he’d come here for without letting anyone, especially not the eagle-eyed duke, see what it was costing him.
It was costing him dearly at the moment. The voice in his head screamed at him to retreat to his bedroom and suffer in silence. He could not afford to heed it. He had to ride it out, he had to. Tomorrow was another day. But even if he made it through the remaining courses, there were the toasts to come, and he’d have no option but to drink them, or appear to do so, else offence would be taken, a black mark earned. Whisky, which he loathed anyway, under these circumstances would be like lighting a touchpaper to his combustible mood. After the toasts there would be another hundred guests arriving for the ceilidh. He’d be expected to take part in the various reels. There would be the skirl and screech of bagpipes. Sir Walter Scott’s poem, The Lady of the Lake, had for some inexplicable reason been translated into Gaelic and was to be recited by an actor in full Highland regalia during supper. The Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch had promised their illustrious guests a traditional Scotch evening, and it was bound to go on until the early hours.
Panic gripped him. He never knew precisely how he would react, whether he would become mute or whether he would scream or shout or simply collapse, but he did know he would disgrace himself. If he could get a breath of fresh air, if he could be alone for a few moments, there was a chance he might just make it go away. It was highly unconventional to leave the table in the middle of a banquet, but fate had been kind enough to have him seated on the window side of the dining room.
He pushed back his chair, checked that his host was not looking his way, mumbled an excuse, and made his escape. The tall window directly behind him led to a small terrace on the south side of the castle. A bronze sundial propped up by cupids sat proudly at its centre, but it was the view that caught his attention. The castle stood on the highest point of
the sweeping vista spread out before him, its natural boundary formed by the line of trees which stretched along the bank of the tumbling Marr Burn. The parterres which the duchess had restored as part of her epic renovation project were pleasingly symmetrical, laid out like the panes of a large stained glass window set flat into the landscape.
But it couldn’t be flat. Drumlanrig sat on an escarpment. Intrigued, he made his way down the stone steps to the gravelled terrace directly below him and discovered the secret of the optical illusion, for the terrace shelved steeply down a grassy bank to the first of several levels. Continuing down the steep path he reached the first terrace which was bordered by a long narrow balustrade he hadn’t noticed from the balcony. Vast quantities of earth had been dug and moved in order to tame nature. Whose had been the original vision? How many gardeners were employed in its upkeep? And how many more worked in the renowned kitchen gardens with the succession houses that he now recalled his fellow guest waxing lyrical about?
“Forget the blasted kitchen gardens,” he muttered to himself, “focus on this view.” Never mind how it had been created or how it was maintained, it was beautiful and it was calming. The sun had set, giving way to a soft twilight. All he required were a few more moments alone to breathe in this lovely air, disperse the fog in his brain, get himself back under control. Perching on the balustrade, he admired the castle. Known locally as the Pink Palace, the Renaissance-style building, with its corner towers with their pepperpot turrets and myriad of chimneys, looked less forbidding and farther away than it actually was, thanks to the tricks the terracing played with perspective.
With a weary sigh, he hauled himself back to his feet. He couldn’t stay out here any longer; it was time to get back to the fray before his absence was noted and questions were asked, his history recalled, the opportunity withdrawn. He was holding his hand out in front of him, noting with relief that there was barely a tremor, when out of the corner of his eye, he saw something moving on the narrow stone parapet which ran above the roof between the two towers of the south frontage. Astounded, he watched as the figure unfurled to its full height and took a tentative step forward. The castle was four stories high. A fall would almost certainly result in death.
Forgetting all about his own state of mind, he began to run as fast as he could up the steep path. By the time he reached the terrace, the figure was almost half-way across the narrow balustrade. It was remarkably but unmistakably female, a tall young woman, built on statuesque lines and scantily clad in a short tunic, giving him an excellent view of her long shapely legs. His first thought was that she must be another performer hired to make the evening memorable, practising her art while her audience were at dinner. But as he got close enough to distinguish her features, he realized that only a few moments ago she had been sitting on the
opposite side of the dinner table from him, wearing a brown dress. There was no mistaking her, despite the fact that the striking grey eyes had been lowered demurely and the generous mouth set into a bland smile.
What on earth was she doing, and why the devil was she risking her neck? Terrified of distracting her, he stood in the shadow of the steps. She was gaining confidence with every step, her arms outstretched for balance like a tightrope artist in a circus; and as he craned his neck, watching in both admiration and trepidation, she gave a balletic leap forward, landing lightly on her slipper-clad feet, and he could have sworn that she laughed. Then, having completed her death-defying traverse, she abruptly disappeared from view.
“Is that you, Colonel?” Startled, he looked up to see a fellow guest peering over the balcony. “Everything all right?”
“Fine,” he answered, astounded by the fact that it was the truth. “I just popped out for a quick smoke.” The lie came easily, his mind perfectly clear as he ran up the stairs.
“Thought it was probably that,” the man said, nodding. “I had the same notion myself. Best get back in now, though; they’re piping in the haggis. It would be bad form to miss it.”
The wail of the bagpipes greeted Lady Mary Montagu Douglas Scott, the youngest daughter of the Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch, as she raced down the servants’ spiral staircase, re-fastening the last few buttons on the bodice of her evening gown. She had worn the tobacco silk despite Mama’s request that she don her new lemon gown, which was much more tightly fitted and difficult for her to fasten without the help of her maid. Her trusty brown gown was looser, and far easier to get in and out of without fuss.
Pausing breathless at the door which opened out onto the small service room, she smiled triumphantly. That was definitely the most terrifying and foolish thing she’d ever done in her life, but she had done it. And in the middle of dinner, too! She was giddy, both awed and astonished at her temerity, but she was also bursting with excitement.
It wasn’t over yet, however. She had only truly succeeded if her escapade went undetected, which meant she had better wipe the smile off her face. Imagining her mother’s reaction should she discover that her youngest daughter had been dancing on the parapet did the trick. Mary straightened her tartan sash and shook out her skirts, noting with dismay that she had forgotten to change out of her special pink slippers. Too late now. Besides, she couldn’t imagine that anyone would notice.
Her father’s piper, sweating in full Highland regalia, raised an eyebrow at her as she sidled into the dining room behind Jamie, the footman bearing the enormous silver salver of haggis. Her mother threw her a significant look as she sat back down, and Mary signalled an apology, waving discreetly at her tummy. She was fortunate enough never to suffer during her monthlies, but it was occasionally convenient to pretend that she did.
She took her place, noting without surprise that the gentlemen on either side of her seemed not a whit concerned by her absence. No-one ever was. What would they say if she told them what she’d just done? She could hardly believe it herself now that she was back at the table. She hadn’t planned it, and even when the idea formed in her mind while she was enduring the first course, she didn’t really intend to go through with it. But as she counted the hours and hours of tedium stretching before her, she calculated that if she was going to do it, then the best time would be right now, when everyone—guests, her parents, the servants—was occupied with dinner. After that it was as if a little devil inside her was urging her on. Up until the moment she stepped out onto the parapet, she’d told herself she could turn back at any point. She was so glad she hadn’t. The knowledge of what she’d done, and the fact that not a single other person here knew, was like champagne fizzing around inside her.
The gentleman opposite her was staring at her. Even though she had already checked her face for dirt or cobwebs, Mary quickly wiped her cheeks. He raised his brow at her, and seemed to be on the brink of breaching all the rules of etiquette to spea
k to her across the table, before changing his mind at the last minute, shaking his head, and looking away with everyone else towards the huge baron of beef which followed the haggis. The roast was borne aloft by two footmen and drew a sigh of approval from the gentlemen guests which the poor haggis had failed to elicit. No-one would turn the pudding down; but in the many banquets Mary had sat through here at Drumlanrig, she had observed that very few sampled it, never mind consumed it with relish. She personally enjoyed it much more than the slabs of rare beef which everyone was licking their lips over; and Jamie, knowing her tastes, accordingly served her a large portion.
“You are partial to haggis?” the gentleman on her right side, a politician friend of her father’s, asked as he eyed his own morsel askance.
“Almost as much as crappit-heid,” Mary replied, deadpan. “That is haddock head stuffed with oats and suet. Don’t tell me you have never tried it?”
“I have never even heard of it,” he answered her with a shudder. “I have a strong suspicion, Lady Mary, that it is an invention of your own and you are pulling my leg.”
“Actually, no, it’s something that Sir Walter Scott had served to King George when he visited Edinburgh some years ago.”
“Ah, a most auspicious occasion for the capital and the nation.”
“Indeed it was.” And an oft-recounted episode in her family’s history. Accordingly, she informed her companion
that King George had resided at Dalkeith Palace, the Buccleuch family home near Edinburgh, for the duration of his visit as a guest of her father who, though he had already inherited his title, had been but a child at the time.
“As was I,” the gentleman said, nodding and smiling, “but it has entered the nation’s folklore.”
He launched into a long and rambling anecdote about the king’s visit which Mary had heard many times, leaving her happily free to smile politely and study the man across the table from her. Unlike almost every other male guest, he was not kitted out in plaid, but wore evening dress in plain black, with a pristine white shirt and necktie. He was rather handsome, with strong features that included a cleft in his clean-shaven jaw. Short-cropped black hair, a strong nose, a full mouth like her own, and heavy-lidded dark-brown eyes that gave him a sleepy look that Mary decided was deceptive. She guessed him to be in his thirties. There was a fan of lines at the corner of each eye and deeper grooves on his brow that could be attributed either to age or to his having endured some sort of trauma or suffering. Was that being fanciful? For some reason, she suspected not.
He must have arrived earlier today, presumably for the first shoot, when she had been out visiting with her mother. She didn’t recognize him as one of her father’s coterie, which was unusual in itself. Intrigued, she continued to study him from beneath her lashes, making a vague comment to her dinner companion about her distant relative Sir Walter Scott. The real object of her attention was not eating, but carefully rearranging his dinner on his plate.
“It is a shame that Sir Walter cannot be here tonight to hear his work performed in Gaelic.” Once again her neighbour interrupted her thoughts. “Such a thoughtful commission for your father to make,” he continued.
“It was my brother William’s idea. Last year was the centenary of Sir Walter Scott’s birth, you know.”
“I did. I attended the celebrations in Edinburgh at the time and spoke to your brother, the earl. He is a fine ambassador for the duke, and for our native language, too.”
“You mean the Gaelic? You speak it yourself, I assume?” Mary enquired.
As she expected, the reply was equivocal. “Not exactly, but heritage and all that, you know? The proud Highlander that your relative Sir Walter writes of, and Her Majesty so reveres. Even those of us who don’t actually speak it can appreciate the—the lyrical beauty of it, eh?”
“Oh yes,” Mary said with one of her most demure smiles. “Like this example?” She rhymed off the long Gaelic curse, which John-Angus, the under-gardener from the Isle of Lewis, had taught her, in the soft lilting accent she had learned to mimic, which made the vicious words sound like a soothing lullaby.
“Beautiful,” her companion said. “May I ask the meaning?”
Across the table, the man had set down his cutlery, his meal almost untouched. He had not taken more than a sip of his wine either. “Do you know that gentleman?” Mary asked, in an effort to avoid answering.
“Who? Oh, that is Colonel Trefusis,” her companion informed her, sounding less than enthusiastic. “Formerly of the Scots Fusiliers, but I believe he is now some sort of administrator.”
“Perhaps that’s why he’s not wearing his uniform.”
“Aye, very plainly dressed he is indeed. Not a scrap of tartan on him. We’ve all made an effort, too, for your father was eager to put on a show to mark the opening of the black grouse season. It’s a shame that the Prince of Wales cancelled at the last moment.”
“Postponed, not cancelled. His Royal Highness was required to deal with an urgent matter of state,” Mary said tactfully, having overheard her father’s furious speculation as to the real reason. “Is the colonel married?”
“No, no, he’s an army man, no wife. His brother is Lord Clinton, I think his estates are in Devon or Cornwall. Somewhere in the West Country.”
“Lord Clinton? I don’t recall ever meeting him, and I have most certainly not met Colonel Trefusis before, but I believe they must both be distant cousins.”
“Aye, I reckon between your father’s and your mother’s illustrious lineage, you’re connected to every family of note in the land. Perhaps Colonel Trefusis will honour his Scottish heritage by donning a kilt for the reels later. Which reminds me, Lady Mary, that I would be very much obliged if you would honour me with a dance, if I’m not too late to put my name down on your card? I’m told I execute a competent schottische, if you have a vacancy?”
“I am not sure where I’ve put my card, but when I find it . . .”
To her relief, her mother signalled the change for the next course, and she turned dutifully to converse with the guest on her other side. Slanting a look across the table as she did so, she momentarily met Colonel Trefusis’s eyes. He raised his brow at her again; and this time, though he did not ask it, the question seemed to her writ loud and clear on his face. What on earth have you been up to?
Drumlanrig Castle was the least grand and imposing of the Buccleuch family stately homes, used primarily for shooting parties in the summer. Impressive though it appeared on the exterior, it was sparsely furnished inside and the rooms were bitterly cold in the winter. It was also a most inconvenient residence, with access to the second floor limited by the spiral staircases in the four towers, which were so narrow that a one-way system was in operation.
Drumlanrig had no ballroom, which meant that the annual ceilidh was held in the drawing room on the first floor. Though all the furniture had been removed, the carpets rolled back, and the musicians crammed into the far corner, there was still very little room for dancing. Fortunately, the reels at the Drumlanrig ceilidh were sedately danced, featuring none of the gusto that prevailed at the less exalted gatherings Mary had illicitly attended on the estate with her friend Stuart, the head gamekeeper’s son. Tonight, the steps to each dance were carefully executed, with a caller standing at the side of the accordionist to describe the more complicated manoeuvres. Strict time was kept, hands were neatly placed, and heads were correctly turned at each step or change of direction.
Years of practice made it easy for Mary to dance without the need to concentrate, and since every one of her partners lacked her experience, it was an added bonus that conversation was sacrificed as they endeavoured not to tread on her toes. She engineered her current partner into the polka section of the “Balmoral Schottische,” earning herself a grateful smile, and surveyed the room once more for Colonel Trefusis, but he was nowhere in sight. She couldn’t see her father either. The duke hated to dance, but he was a stickler for propriety, and it wasn’t at all like him to disappear in the middle of his own ceilidh. Were the two men closeted together? What on earth could they be discussing? It must be something more important than a polite chinwag.
The dance ended and Mary was dropping the requisite curtsy when her mother appeared at her shoulder. “If you will excuse us,” the duchess said, smiling graciously at
Mary’s partner, and taking her arm in a firm grip, “I require a quiet word with my daughter.”
Oh dear heavens! Her mother must have noticed how long she had been away from the table. “Mama, the next dance—”
“Does not begin for ten minutes.” The duchess led her out of the drawing room to the window embrasure of the adjoining sitting room where several guests were recovering from their exertions on the dance floor. “Now tell me honestly,” she said, “should I be worried about you?”
“No!” The denial sounded panicked. Mary reminded herself that her mother could not possibly know what she really had been doing. “I mean, no, of course you needn’t worry, Mama.”
“You were gone from the table for at least twenty minutes. To leave in the middle of a banquet like that, you must have been feeling terribly ill.”
“Oh no, I promise you I am perfectly well,” Mary said guiltily. “My monthlies arrived early, and I had to attend to the matter, that is all.”
The duchess winced. “Oh. Yes, I see.”
“I really didn’t mean to worry you.”
“No, I’m aware, Mary, that you never do. You think that having one daughter causing me sleepless nights is more than enough for me to endure” was the surprisingly accurate and wry reply.
“Margaret is very happy now in New York. She said so in her last letter; and you know, Mama, one thing about Margaret is that she never pretends. If she says she’s happy, then she is.”
“That is very true: one always knows exactly where one is with Margaret. In that sense you are very different from her. I never know what is going on in that head of yours. You are my only little fledgling left in the nest.”
“I thought you were eager for me to take flight,” Mary replied, taken aback by her mother’s unaccustomed whimsy.
“What makes you think that?”
“Wasn’t that the whole point of me spending the last two Seasons in London? I’m sorry I’ve proved so difficult to dispose of.”
“Dispose of! What a way to put it. I wanted you to enjoy yourself. A new wardrobe, parties—it was a chance for you to meet new people, make new friends. You have been too much alone, and I am aware that to a large degree that is my fault. You are shy, and that first Season was something of a trial to you, but I hoped you would enjoy this Season more.”
“Well, I didn’t,” Mary said baldly. “Are you really saying you didn’t take me to London to find me a husband?”
“I thought my motives were obvious. I hoped you would understand, Mary, that I have learned from my mistakes regarding your sister.” The duchess pursed her lips. “This is not a topic we should be discussing at the moment. We should rejoin our guests.”
There was much food for thought in her mother’s words, but over her shoulder Mary spied Colonel Trefusis and her father re-entering the drawing room. Colonel Trefusis had clearly spotted her, for he made his way quickly across the floor and made his bow.
“Your Grace. Lady Mary. I believe this dance is mine?”
Mary knew full well that it was not and so did her portly partner, who was barrelling his way towards her, but she allowed him to take her arm. “The Lord Provost has his name down for this reel, you know.”
Colonel Trefusis smiled and shook his head. “If he attempts a strip the willow he’ll have an apoplexy. You’ll spare him and the good people of Dumfries by dancing with me instead.”
He led them to a set of three couples which had formed nearest the front door. Obviously a man with no regard for the strict rules governing a ceilidh, he then positioned them at the head of the line, which meant they would be the first to dance rather than the last. “We should be at the back,” Mary hissed, trying to free her arm.
The colonel, however, linked arms with her, securing her firmly to the spot. “I’ve been waiting all night to dance with you, and cannot bide my time a moment longer.”
“Waiting all night! Where? I haven’t seen you since dinner.”
“I was otherwise engaged.”
“I wasn’t looking for you. I simply noticed . . .”
“That I had disappeared?” he queried. “As indeed you did during dinner.”
“I left the table to attend to a—a personal matter,” Mary said, colouring, “as I was just explaining to my mother.”
Any gentleman would have immediately turned the subject. Colonel Trefusis simply raised his brows. “A personal matter. An interesting way of putting it.”
What did he mean? He could not possibly have seen her. It was strictly against all the rules of etiquette to leave the table half-way through a banquet, as she had done. The band struck up. Mary tried to tug her arm free. “I cannot possibly offend the Lord Provost.”
“If the Lord Provost is offended, it is my fault. As for the dance, I think you’ll find I’m reasonably competent,” Colonel Trefusis replied, urging her into a spin exactly on cue.
There was nothing at all sedate in the way he did it, almost whirling her off her feet. She was so giddy when he released her, she almost missed her own step as she danced her way down the line of gentlemen. At the bottom they spun together again, but she was ready for him this time, and enjoyed flying around. It was the colonel’s turn now to make his way up the line, birling each of the ladies. At the top, he took Mary’s arms for one more turn, this time spinning her so wildly she staggered, unaware that he had danced them out of the drawing room until he came to a sudden halt.
“What on earth are you doing?” Mary gasped.
“I thought you needed some air. You look a little giddy.”
“Thanks to you!”
“We need to talk, and it’s impossible to do that while dancing.”
Still holding on to her, he hurried her past the two footmen standing at the top of the main oak staircase, through a door which led to one of the small balconies on the southern façade of the castle, and down the stone steps into the gloom of the garden.
“We can’t be long, or we’ll be missed,” Colonel Trefusis said, letting go of her arm.
“We’ve probably already been missed. That was hardly a subtle manoeuvre,” Mary said pointedly, completely thrown by his high-handed behaviour. “My mother . . .”
“Tell her you felt faint.”
“I’ve already worried her enough tonight by disappearing at dinner. Anyway, I never faint.”
“You should cultivate the habit. It can be a most useful method of escaping from tricky situations.”
“Such as this one?”
“I would have thought the situation you placed yourself in earlier was much tricker.”
Her heart skipped a beat. Don’t panic. He could not possibly have seen her. Diversion, Mary thought, clutching at straws. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t simply put your name on my dance card, if you were so set on dancing with me.”
“I had not planned to join in the dancing.”
“Now you have singled me out, it will look very odd.”
“Then I will make a point of dancing with at least two other ladies when we go back to the ceilidh, which will have to be soon. Let us come to the point, shall we, Lady Mary?”
Her mouth went dry, but she managed what she hoped was a bland smile. “Which is?”
“The astonishing exploit you performed during dinner.”
She considered trying to deny it, but there was something in the colonel’s expression that made her change her mind. A subtle change that she couldn’t put her finger on, but it made her feel rather like a junior officer caught in the wrong. “You saw me.”
“I saw you. What the devil were you playing at, risking your neck like that?”
“I wasn’t risking my neck!”
“Really? ...
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